


In the Mirror

by BrynFang



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Body Horror, Existential Horror, Flash Fic, Horror, unreality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:54:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24262402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrynFang/pseuds/BrynFang
Summary: Short story about Michael the Distortion. Nothing too wild here, I just wanted to write about a boy with too many bones in his hands.
Kudos: 13





	In the Mirror

It is one in the morning and there is a tall blond man outside my window. He is standing outside on the street and staring directly at me. There is something about his eyes that makes my head throb with pain.

It is four in the morning. I am driving on a highway I’ve never heard of before. When I look in the rearview mirror, cracked but still serviceable, I see him walking along the side of the road. His hands are long and sharp. His eyes still hurt to look at, but now I understand why- if there is a why with him, an understanding where he is concerned.

It is six in the morning when I arrive at a friend’s home. She doesn't ask why I’m here. Something in my expression makes her understand, I think, or maybe it just makes her too scared to ask.

She lets me sleep in the guest room, but I can’t. Something is wrong in this room. I just don’t know what.  
My head hurts when I glance at the closet door.  
Was that door slightly ajar the moment before, or am I only imagining that it was closed?  
The closet within is too dark to see clearly. The door isn’t open wide enough anyways.  
The last thing I see before I finally get to sleep is the alarm clock that tells me it is eight in the morning.

It is three in the afternoon when I wake up again. The closet door still hurts to look at, but it’s closed again. I walk downstairs to the kitchen and ask my host if she closed it. She tells me there isn’t a closet in the guest room.  
I do not know what lies behind that door, and it worries me.  
I thank her for letting me stay over. She asks me what’s wrong, saying something is clearly bothering me. I’m too distracted to reply.

The kitchen window is warped, and standing outside is the man with the sandy blond hair. He smiles. His teeth are as sharp as his hands.  
The man points with a long, sharp finger as I hear the creak of a door behind me. When I turn around, I see the same old yellow door that earlier today led to what was not a closet. Now it stands in place of the door outside.  
I turn back to the man with the long, sharp hands. I cannot hear it, but I am certain that he is laughing.

My host is sitting at the table, drinking a cup of coffee. She seems to be ignoring me.  
She cannot see out the window from where she sits. Were she to turn her head, she would see the door, but she is staring directly ahead. I think she knows I don’t want to explain what’s going on to her. I think she knows it’s best if she just pretends nothing is wrong.  
Or maybe she really doesn’t notice. Maybe I’m the only one who can see any of this.  
Maybe I’m seeing things that aren’t there at all.  
I can hear his laughter now, though my host still does not move from her chair to see the man who stands outside.

I turn back to the door, and it is no longer the yellow color it had been, if it ever was at all. I thank my host again and tell her I have to go now.  
She smiles, but she doesn’t look me in the eye when she says I can come back any time. I think she knows that something is wrong. Even if she doesn’t know the things that have happened to me, even if she doesn’t know about the tall blond man who hasn’t aged since I was seventeen years old, even if she doesn’t know that people tend to disappear around me and that I’m the only one who ever remembers them, she knows that something is wrong.

I check one last time to make sure that the door is still white before I turn the handle and walk out to my car.  
When I look in the rearview mirror, I see him again. He looks disappointed. He shakes his head and mouths the words _it’s polite to answer the door._


End file.
